


Bloodline

by Josey (cestus)



Category: Garnet Lacey Series - Tate Hallaway
Genre: Dhampyr, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Vampire Bites, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cestus/pseuds/Josey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mátyás may hate his father, but that doesn't mean he wants him dead. Not yet anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodline

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the tag, there's no actual sex, just Mátyás being turned on by his dad's bite.

The gravel of the parking lot is sharp under his shoulder blades. Though nothing like so sharp as the fangs at his neck. 

His father's fangs. 

Mátyás shivers.

"You’re making a piss-poor case for your life, boy." His father's words breathe cool air onto his throat. 

A prayer resounds in Mátyás' mind, but he cannot bring himself to utter it. Sudden fear stoppers his mouth, bone-deep and chilling. But not for himself. Not anymore.

"You’re hurt. What’s happened, Papa?" He looks again at his father's face. At the impossible sun damage and the sunken cheeks, and knows what's happening even before he's told.

"It's the formula. It's weakening."

Desperate hope surges in Mátyás' heart and pours itself into his next words. "All the more reason to go to them. The Church can help you." He's never even allowed himself to dream, but here - here is his chance. "They can help us all. You. Me. And I’m bringing them Mother. Once the exorcism is performed—"

The look of disappointment smacks him in the face harder than any blow his father has ever landed, and stings worse than the words that follow. "You’re an extremely foolish boy."

No. That, he will not accept. He is not foolish for having hope. His father is the foolish one, for giving up. Worse, for putting her away in the deep dark, so he can deny how terribly he failed, he is a coward. 

And he has to be made to see that. He must make amends. 

The promise Mother Church has offered can do that. And for what? The price of an old book full of useless writings. A failed alchemical formula. It is worth it. It has to be worth it.

The prayer presses again. Mátyás bites it back, his mind a churning mess of, 'Please, papa, hear me', and his mother's perfect, beautifully empty face. He surges to his elbows. "Why?" he demands and he will have an answer. "Because I want us to be a family?" 

"I never gave the formula to your mother."

What? 

No! 

Hope withers as the explanation tumbles out, landing like rocks in Mátyás' gut. This isn't possible. All his plans, all his calculations are predicated on the simple truth that the formula doesn't work. That whatever created his father had been a fluke, a dark miracle wrought on a whim by some passing demon. 

He'd only offered the grimoire as coin because he believed it contained nothing. If the formula does work, if there is even the slightest chance that it might, then Mátyás is handing over the key to life itself, and he isn't stupid enough to believe that such a thing, even when wielded by the righteous, can remain uncorrupted for long. 

Mátyás knows his father's power, has seen him at the height of it, and knows that few can stand against him. An army of such creatures would be terrible. That is undeniable truth. 

He swallows his pride. The priests have him bound too tight, he cannot escape their clutches, but he can balance the scales a little for the fight to come. And for all that hatred has sprung up between them, Sebastian is still his father, and Mátyás would not see him truly dead.

Baring his neck, he tells his father, "Drink."

For once there is no argument. Strong arms embrace him, drawing him close. Mátyás breathes, preparing himself, and genuinely thinks he's ready, until fangs plunge deep, and by then it's too late - for him, for them, for the realisation that there is no way to ever be ready for this. 

He gasps, clutching at his father's coat, and hears hurried footsteps as the witch leaves. The car door slams and she is gone. They are alone.

"Papa." The word is quiet, choked, and it shames him. 

Memories of all those flushed-faced pretty girls his father has used and cast away over the years roil in Mátyás' mind. He is better than them. He has to be. But the rush in his head, through his veins, makes thinking almost impossible. 

Digging deep, he tries to fight the sensations. Cold fingers stroking through his hair are probably meant as comfort, but they don't help. If anything they're making the problem worse. He's losing too much blood to get hard, but the pleasure centres firing off are exactly the same ones.

Another draw on his blood, and Mátyás cannot prevent the low moan that rolls up through his chest to spill from his lips in something that sounds suspiciously like a sob. 

The suckling stops immediately and the fangs withdraw. 

"No!" Mátyás croaks, hand grasping and clinging. He is dhamphyr. He will not be defeated so easily. "Take what you need."

"If I did that, boy, it would kill you."

Mátyás shudders as the words speak to the part of him that longs for that dark embrace. Because however much he tries to feel superior, he is as unnatural as his father. Cursed to walk the earth for who knows how many years. 

And, as always, there's that passing thought. If he dies, will his mother die too. Is it his prayers, his hopes, _his love_ that stops her from moving on?

"Take it," he whispers. "It's yours anyway."

His father snarls and the fangs are back, this time without gentleness. It doesn't stop the pleasure coursing through him as his blood is drawn away. He cries out, fingers dancing over his father's back as breath is stolen and his heart races, chasing oxygen in a sham of orgasm.

On the cusp of eternity, he is dropped, unsatisfied, to the ground. He lands laughing. It's weak, hysterical, because as always his father is walking away and leaving him behind. 

Black boots clip the concrete as Sebastian strides away, his step sure and strong. Mátyás curls into himself, too weak to do anything else and listens as the engine starts and the car finally roars away. Only then does he pull out his phone and dial the number to let the hunters know he has found his father.


End file.
